The Inside Scoop
by OfficialUSMWriter
Summary: "I've finally got you, Wall-Crawler." "JJ, dontcha think we can focus on the more pressing matter here?" Spider-Man demanded. Jameson swept the flaps of his jacket to the side so he could plant his hands on his hips, "What could possibly be more important?" "Maybe the fact that we've been kidnapped by a group of terrorists? Does that not sound more important to you?"
1. Karma Coming Atcha!

**Hey-o! Look a Spider-Man story that isn't USM based! Huzzah! :D LOL **

**This was supposed to be a one-shot, but it got so much longer. So, ficlet! YAY! **

**This story is dedicated and written response to dragoscilvio's amazing prompt they left in one of their reviews! Drago - consider my muse VERY pleased. ;D And I hope you enjoy my take on your prompt!**

_J. Jonah Jameson POV_

There is something liberating about calling out the problems with society.

It was the core of his being. The motor to his engine, and the driving force of his purpose in life. It was why he became a servant of the news, to let the people know what was happening in their world, and it was a job he took as serious as producers to their ratings. Every inside-scoop was his to uncover, every detail put under the microscope to be analyzed, and every story at its full potential.

And J. Jonah Jameson didn't care who you were or what your opinion might be, Spider-Man _was_ a menace and he'd defend that until his dying breath.

The web-slinger could have all of New York wrapped around his sticky, spandex-pinched fingers, but not Jameson. He refused to be roped into the twisting, snake pile of lies. He knew a no-good hooligan when he saw one, and that's all Spider-Man was.

A weird, web-slinging hooligan who had no respect for the law.

Vigilantism, in any form, was illegal and should be treated as such. None of this coddling and cooing that the people of this city were beginning to wean into. Just the other day someone tried to sell him a Spider-Man t-shirt – the blasted thing was the ugliest article of clothing he's ever had pushed into his hands, and that _wasn't _because it had red and blue hearts all over it.

As if there weren't enough hoodlums running around in capes and tights, flaunting their powers as they immersed themselves into criminal activity without proper jurisdiction, they just had to keep crawling out of the wood-works. At this rate, things were going to spiral out of control.

The biggest time-bomb Jameson had spotted out of the horde of "superheroes" was the tyrant in red and blue spandex. Swinging in and interfering with police business, making messes with those webs of his, causing property damage, it was a complete wonder to him why the citizens hadn't caught on yet. That bumbling fool was about as helpful as a toddler wearing footie-pajamas.

Still, despite the Wallcrawlers fans, Jameson was proud of his own established group of supporters who understood what he was talking about. A good bunch of well-rounded people who could tell a vigilante from an Avenger. But that group was getting smaller and smaller every time his news show aired, which grated on every one of his nerves.

Spider-Man was winning this city over and Jameson was _not _going to stand for it.

As he had elaborated as much in that nights' live show. He had touched on several points about the cities heap of vigilantes, and the ruckus they were causing, it managed to connect quite a few of Spider-Man's own bumbling "rescues."

Now, he stepped off the news set, adjusting his tie with a pleased smile. On top of his argument against a certain menace, he also brought up a recent incident that other media channels have been brushing over. Well, they might be a bunch of spineless saps, but he wasn't. If there was something the people should know about, he was going to tell them.

But judging by the frown on Robbie's face and the tight way he was pacing, Jameson could tell that his partner was far from convinced.

"Are you sure that was a good idea, Jameson?" He asked as soon as Jameson stepped in line with him. "I mean, I understand bringing up the attack, but is connecting it to the Wakandian summit really necessary?"

"Of course it is, Robbie," Jameson grunted, somewhat insulted as he grabbed his jacket from an intern waiting for him near the door. Once on, he rummaged around through the pockets for his keys. "There were Wakandian people spotted at the airport during the attack and the explosion that went off showed similar effects of ones used by that King of theirs. He may be considered an Avenger, but I won't brush off the facts. The Bugle won't be a lily-livered, yellow-bellied coward like every other news anchor."

Robbie gave him a dull look as they entered the elevator and pushed the down button without looking. "Spider-Man," he said, folding his arms.

"He was there too," Jameson said indignantly, already foreseeing where this conversation was going. Heaven knows he's already had this argument with Robbie a dozen other times that week. "That menace was right in the middle of the fray. Besides, he was caught helping the terrorists on _camera." _

"He pulled one of them out of the way of gunfire," Robbie said, rubbing his forehead. "You know Spider-Man doesn't let people die. There was a whole segment about it on CNN. Besides, he saved those airport cops from being blown up."

"Bah," Jameson waved him off. "Just trying to keep his façade up. He's working with them, Robbie, I tell ya," The elevator dinged, and they stepped off into a hall of concrete walls and cold floors, quickly turning down a small section of stairs. Robbie followed him with a huff, still looking ambivalent.

Jameson had his hand on the door that led down to the building garage when Robbie's hand grabbed his arm and stopped. With a heavy sigh, he turned back around, arms folded, and waited for Robbie to get his say in.

"Jameson, you know I support the Bugle. I always have. But I think you need to put this Spider-Man propaganda to rest. It's really getting to you, and people are starting to notice," he said, staring so earnestly it made him Jameson hesitate.

Sure, there have been a few media slanders about the Bugle and his apparent "obsession" with Spider-Man. But they were all wrong, dammit! Spider-Man was always in the middle of things, always seemed to have a connection to every villain he "fought," always managed to get away from the authorities. No one even knew who was behind that mask of his. He could be _anybody_. A drug lord, or a terrorist, or a human trafficker. The people knew absolutely nothing about this "hero" and yet they were willing to give him their trust? Just like that?

Not Jameson. At least with the Avengers and the X-Men they knew the people under those costumes. Did Spider-Man think he was a special case? That the people didn't have the right to know whose hands their lives were in? Absolutely not!

Regardless, he understood Robbie's concern. Robbie has always been there, supporting him and the Bugle in every way. He ran the Bugle just as much, if not more than Jameson did, and despite their very different views, Jameson could respect his insight no-less.

"I hear ya, Robbie," he said, clapping his partner on the shoulder. "I do. But I refuse to let Spider-Man make a fool of this city! You say he's a good guy, that he saved those airport cops, but no one's seen him since the terrorists slumped back into their hole. Where is he, then? Probably coming up with a new attack, no doubt! I won't have it."

Robbie sighed, but his shoulders slumped in a way that meant he would let Jameson win this time.

"That's – that's not all, J." He admitted. "You've been stressing on this terrorist group pretty heavily. I'm just – I'm just worried that they might start acting out. You need to tread lightly, Jonah. They seem serious."

Jameson puffed out his chest. "Exactly why it's our duty to spread the light, Robbie! I won't be intimidated into sniveling in my own news channel. That's the Globes' job," he cackled nastily to himself before he continued, "Don't you worry about me, it'll take a lot more than a few threats to bring Jameson down!"

"I know, I know," Robbie said, holding out his hands as if to placate his partner. "You'll be fine on your own. But maybe you should wait until I've finished my work tonight. I can drive you home, make sure you get there okay. Maybe you can come stay at my place-"

"And what'll that tell them?" Jameson demanded. "That I'm weary? That I'm scared? I'm sorry Robbie, but I won't let my reputation go to tarnishes. Besides, your neighborhood is probably more dangerous than mine."

"Please, Jonah," Robbie insisted. "You're my friend."

Jameson stuffed his hands in his coat and squared his shoulders. "I appreciate your concern Robbie," he said, clapping a hand over his friends' shoulder. "I really do. You're a pal. But I won't be run out of my own home. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that, he whirled on his heels and descended the steps into the underground garage. Behind him, Robbie sighed again, muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "Unless they step in," but the door closed with a soft clang as he left to finish his work for the night.

Jameson twisted his coat tighter around his frame and adjusted his hat. He found his car easily, likely because it was the oldest in the lot. But it was by far the best-looking one. A classic 1959 Mercedes Benz, with a shiny black coat and silver-trimmings. He'd had this car since his first step into a printing room, and he'd be damned if he didn't take care of it.

It was practically a relic at this point.

He stopped at the driver-side door to fish his keys out of his coat pocket once more, and pushed them eagerly into the key slot, already daydreaming about getting home, finding something warm to eat, and rewatching his broadcast to make sure no one cut out anything important. His hand curled around the door handle, and his eyes glanced up briefly over the top of the glossy car roof, where he noticed a dark figure at the end of the parking lot.

His grip on the handle faltered, and not a second passed before the lights in the garage went out.

"Blasted lights," he muttered to himself, doing his best to ignore the suddenly anxious patter of his heart. "Damn budgets and wires. Have to get someone to fix that. Tomorrow, though. Definitely tomorrow." He quickly yanked the door open and hastened into the driver's seat, slamming it shut behind him.

Hand-memory brought the key up to the ignition. As soon as the car rumbled to life, his hand found the gear-stick and he stuck it in reverse. Still grumbling, he flicked the headlights on and very nearly jumped through the roof when he did.

Standing right in front of his car was a person garbed in a dark black bodysuit that shone with old runes and archaic designs that seemed to glow in the light. Spitting a curse that would bloody the ears of any honest priest, Jameson's foot hit the gas and they lurched in reverse.

He barely got a few feet away when the dark figure tossed something on the hood of his car. From where he sat, it looked small and thin, loosely resembling an enlarged Othello piece. But as soon as it hit the hood, an arc of blue energy rippled throughout the car and seconds later everything went dead. The headlights blinked off as if a light switch had been thrown, and the figure was lost in darkness again.

"Dammit!" Jameson cursed, smacking the steering wheel. "C'mon _work _you damn hunk of rusty metal!" He hit the gas pedal harder, but the car stood stubbornly still.

A thud thumped against his door, followed by a metal shriek and a whoosh of cold air as the door was torn from its hinges.

"Now just hold on one damn minute-" Jameson started saying, just as a hand curled around his nicely buttoned shirt and dragged him out of his seat.

Through the hazy darkness, Jameson struggled against the iron grip, prying at the fingers with as much luck as a pair of tweezers had at bending a nail. Faintly, he could make out the glowing runes running throughout his attackers' suit, which if touch was anything to go by, was made out of some type of metal.

"Mr. Jameson," a gravelly voice greeted him with a banal gusto reeking of an accent he could recognize all too well. He's been doing broadcasts and discussion with and about Wakandians enough to recognize their modulation when he heard it. "I hope you can spare the time for a last-minute interview."

"Let me go you filthy terrorist - mmf!" was all Jameson managed to spit out when a cloth was pushed to his nose and he breathed in the heavy scent of chemicals.

Sometimes he hated how right Robbie could be.

* * *

They could have at least had the decency to lock him up in a cleanroom.

When Jameson's eyes cracked open, it was to see nothing but darkness. He blinked several times to make sure he was truly awake, and when he groaned, he inhaled a strong, dusty breath of air that had him hacking so terribly, someone might've thought he was being strangled.

It took a moment before his eyes adjusted, and he squinted as he observed the dusty, deserted old room they'd thrown him in. The floor had a layer of grime so thick that in the places his skin touched it, it had piled like the skin foundation his wife wore. The sheer mustiness of the air made him feel as though he'd grown an entirely new set of skin, one that was dirtier than the last.

Still coughing up his gut, he scooted across the cold floor and leaned his back against the wall, using the filthy sleeve of his jacket to wipe away the grime on his face. It probably did more spreading than cleaning, though, and he dropped his arm just as quickly.

The only source of light the room had was slivers of white light from beneath the closed door across from him. There were no windows and judging by how hard the floor and walls were, the room was made out of something cold and rough. Concrete, it felt like.

Where had those terrorists taken him?

He could be out of the city. Out of the country, for all he knew. How long had he been out?

He rummaged around through his coat pockets, but his phone and wallet were missing. Even the old pocket-watch his son, John (the astronaut), got him for his 56th birthday.

"Shoulda listened to ya, Robbie," He muttered sourly to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Robbie _was_ right, Jameson could be pretty hard-headed sometimes. But whatever these low-lives wanted with him, he wasn't going to give it! J. Jonah Jameson didn't help terrorists.

Nor would he lie down and take this. Using the wall, he got to his feet and shuffled cautiously through the dark. Thankfully, the room seemed mostly deserted, so he didn't have to worry about knocking into anything.

Once he got to the door, he rattled the doorknob, already figuring it would be locked. Which it was. He banged his fist against it, yelling loudly, "Hey! Whatever you bastards plan on doing to me, you better just get on with it!"

His response didn't come from anyone outside.

"Watch it, they might take you serious. Even with that stupid mustache."

Jameson froze for half a second, before whirling around with his back plastered to the door. "Who - who said that?"

"Over here, the ominous –" (a raspy cough) "- voice in the corner. Your conscience, if you couldn't tell."

That voice sounded familiar.

And not a good familiar.

Jameson inched away from the door, peering into the shadows skeptically. He squinted as he neared the corner of the room the voice had been coming from, blinking rapidly to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness faster.

Vaguely, he could make out the faint lines of another person sitting against the wall, wedged in the corner with their legs sprawled out, and an arm strewn across their stomach. Or, at least, he hoped it was an arm.

"Who are you?" He demanded.

The head shifted a little, and the feeble lines of light from the door flashed across the glossy surface of, what appeared to be, a mask lens. "Don't recognize me, J.J?" the voice said, it sounded playful, though it lacked real vitality. Another wheezing cough and the figure seemed to curl tighter in on themselves. "Ugh - that hurts almost as much as the rest of me."

A beam of realization shown through the muck of Jameson's mind and he recoiled. "No, it can't be..." His eyes were adjusting better now, and through the dusty, murky gloom, he could barely make out webbed lines and a spider on the man's chest.

"Hey, picklepuss," Spider-Man wheezed at him, turning so the light hit his bug-eyed lenses again. "Now would you –" (cough) "- stop moving? You're kicking up all the dust."

**First chapter! Hoo-ha! A few things to know real quickly – I've been completely swamped as of late. I haven't had a lot of time to work on my stories and with one of my sisters getting married, things are only getting busier. For those of you who are reading my other fics, please be patient with me. **

**Thankfully, this fic is already 90% written! There will be 8 chapters in total, and 6-ish of them are already jotted down. I'll post a new chapter every Friday. **

**I'm mostly publishing this story now because I need a break from writing USM (cause as much as I love that fandom, sometimes I just need to take a breather from my USM fanfics). This story is very exciting to me and I can't wait to show you all what's in store! **

**If you've read and liked it, please leave a review down below! It feeds me. :P (No seriously, please do. Reviews are how I sustain my writing.) **

**Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy what's to come! :D **


	2. Emotional Heart-Attack

**WHOO! Yeah, second chapter, here we go! **

J. Jonah Jameson POV

"I knew it! I _knew it_! Robbie told me I was being crazy, he doubted me, yet here we are. I, J. Jonah Jameson, was right AGAIN!" Jameson was saying, pacing a line in the room as he threw his hands up in victorious acclaim.

At his feet, Spider-Man rolled his head to the side, pushing something akin to a scoff from his throat, although it could've easily been a cough. But Jameson could care less about the dust he was kicking up, especially if it was making _him _uncomfortable, because he was right! Spider-Man had been involved with the terrorists from the beginning. If only Robbie could see him now!

Now all Jameson needed was a camera so he could have some solid proof. There was no way he was going to allow Spider-Man to weasel his way out of this one. The menace was trapped like a bug in a glue-trap.

"Just you wait till I get this on the news," Jameson continued, jabbing a finger in the direction of Spider-Man's derisive scoff, "We'll see who wins this time, eh! I've finally got you, Wall-Crawler."

It was still vainly dark in the room, even though his eyes were starting to adjust more quickly to the darkness, but Jameson was under the acute impression that Spider-Man was getting frustrated. The vigilante shifted slightly in his corner, spandex pinching and rubbing against spandex, as he coughed shallowly.

"Look JJ, I'm happy for you an' all, but dontcha think we can focus on the more pressing matter here?"

Jameson swept the flaps of his jacket to the side so he could plant his hands on his hips, looming over the darkened figure who resembled more of a stain than a solid being. "Yeah? An what could possibly be more important?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that we're both locked up in a dark room together after being kidnapped by a group of terrorists? Does that not sound a _little_ more pressing to you?"

Jameson's arms dropped a tad and he stood at large again, squinting, "Eh...well, I suppose that might be rather important," he grumbled, albeit begrudgingly. He took a few cautious steps back, knocking over something large and round - a bucket perhaps - and sat on a sturdy stack of boxes. "Alright, spill it Wall-Crawler. What'd you do to piss off your buddies into backstabbing ya?"

"You _still_ think I'm working with them?" Spider-Man laughed wetly and completely absent of humor. "Honestly, JJ. When will you give it a rest?"

"Don't try and convince me otherwise! I've been watching you-"

"Don't be a creeper, J."

"-and all the evidence points to you being in cahoots with them!"

"Cahoots!" Spider-Man exclaimed, as if that explained it all, though he sounded tense and strained. "Who says _cahoots _anymore? You're old, Jameson."

"You've been spotted lurking around with them! You've saved one of their members and you just _happen _to go off the grid when they nearly succeed in attacking an airport. What do you have to say to that?"

"I'd say you're biased as hell," Spider-Man shifted in the darkness again, as if trying to lean-in closer. "I was trying to stop that attack, in case your eyes aren't working, and I wasn't about to just let one of them _die_," his voice was getting hoarse and scratchy the louder it rose. "Besides, what kind of team kidnaps you in the dark hours of the night and beats you half to death? Not exactly building a team bond, if you ask me."

Jameson scoffed. Sat back on his boxes. And scoffed again.

Ridiculous. He? _biased_? No, he told the truth as he saw it. Besides, who's to say Spider-Man was telling the truth? Granted, he _did _sound as though he was in pain, but under the cover of darkness, Jameson wasn't able to determine that for himself. It could all be a ploy to get him to talk. If those terrorists thought it'd work, then they were sorely wrong.

As soon as he got back to Robbie and his news crew, New York was going to be in for one hell of a wake-up call. That's for sure.

In his corner, Spider-Man suddenly perked up, going stiff before slumping back again, "Aw hell," he said, groaning as if he'd been sucker-punched.

No sooner did footsteps reverberate from the floor outside and Jameson turned as a shadow stopped in front of the door. He lurched to his feet just as the door swung open and bright, yellow light flooded the room. He winced, holding up his hands to block the light, as two dark figures stalked inside.

"Hey, what's going on-oomph!" One of the two pushed him to the side, knocking him into a pile of thick, dusty sack paper. Empty cement bags if the red bolded words were anything to go by.

At his back, Spider-Man shifted, grunting painfully, and Jameson turned just in time to see the two newcomers haul the Web-Slinger to his feet. Damn, maybe the guy wasn't lying about getting beaten half to death. The light from outside was more than enough to distinguish details with and Spider-Man did NOT look good.

Whatever these guys did to him it was _bad. _His costume was dirtied from sitting in cement dust and blood for so long, the blood dried brown in some areas and bright red in others, with tears lacerating nearly every part of his body. Even as the two captors got him to his feet, he instantly doubled over, one arm pressed heavily into his side, while the other vainly tried to stabilize himself against the wall. His leg dangled at an obscene angle, and with a sickening lurch, Jameson realized he could see something bulging beneath the skin of his calf.

"Come on," one of the two growled, heaving Spider-Man back up when he stumbled, and Spider-Man nearly collapsed again, this time with a pained shout.

Somehow, despite the pain, the vigilante looked between them, nodding a jerky greeting. "Long time," - he took a deep, rattling breath - "no see. Here for round two?"

They didn't bother to answer him. Each took an arm and lifted him up so he was supported between them and they strode toward the door, being none too gentle as they went.

Jameson barely got to his feet by the time they were stepping out of the room. "Wait!" he lurched forward, but the door slammed shut and he was lost in darkness.

He stood there for a few solid minutes, before slowly shuffling back and sinking against the wall once he found it. His head fell in his hands and he drew his knees close to his chest. He tried not to think about the blood staining the spot Spider-Man had been in just seconds before.

* * *

Whatever they were doing with Spider-Man, they sure were taking their dear sweet time.

Sometime in Spider-Man's absence, Jameson moved his position closer to the door in hopes of hearing the guards come back. He wasn't sure how long it'd been since his grudging cellmate was taken, but he deduced it to be somewhere around 30 – 45 minutes – at _least_.

His fingers drummed quickly against his leg as he stretched his hearing as far as it could go. It was unnervingly calm outside the door and with an offended start, Jameson wondered whether anyone was stationed by his room at all. Did they really think he wasn't important enough to guard consistently?

If that wasn't a hit to his pride!

His tapping grew more fervent as the minutes ticked by, before he huffed and lay down across the floor, peering through the small crack under the door for any feet. There were none. As far as he was concerned, no one was even outside.

Jumping back to his feet, he tried the door for the dozenth time. Still as locked as it was 5 minutes ago.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, smacking back against the wall, arms crossed. He needed to find a way out of there, as soon as possible. He wasn't about to sit there like a damned damsel in distress, not when he had a news story to uncover. Journalism was in his blood, the culmination of his early adult years, something that's stood by his side through thick and thin. He was a reporter long before he was editor and chief - a position he had to climb and claw his way to.

The competency of his younger-days wasn't lost in the years of cigar-burning and club-attending he's grown accustomed to either. He was just as sprite and quick as when he was a young, green boy stepping into a press room for the first time. The serrated smell of ink that cut him down to the bone, marking him as a servant of the people to deliver news and information, no matter how perfervid the story might be. That was the raw, unpurified version of J. Jonah Jameson, and he would not be stifled by the arrogance of these terrorists!

Heaving back to his feet, Jameson traversed in front of the door, rubbing his hands together, trying to spark an idea within the friction of his palms. There had to be a way out of there. Wherever _there _was.

Where had they taken him anyway?

He could be on a whole other continent for all he knew.

But that didn't make much sense if he was. He couldn't have been unconscious for too long, so they must've taken him somewhere close. Besides, if these really _were _the terrorists trying to sabotage the Wakandian summit, they wouldn't travel too far from their target. They'd stay close by, but out of sight. Staying out of the light of the police, but remaining close enough to keep an eye on their quarry. Planning. Strategizing.

Something crinkled under his feet and Jameson realized he was straying farther from the door. Grumbling, he kicked the sack paper away, kicking up a large cloud of cement dust that clung greedily to the air. "Gah," he coughed roughly, waving the cursed filth away.

If they were going to shove him in a room, couldn't it have been cleaned?

Wait. Hold on a sec...

Jameson crouched back down, tetchily scrubbing dust from his eyes as he squinted at the sack paper. He thought back to earlier when the door was open.

What had he seen? He picked up the sack paper, bringing it close to his face.

These were cement bags. The plastic on the floor, those were tarps. Those boxes he sat on, they were hard and extremely heavy, and he would bet his bottom dollar they were full of cement mix too.

Scrambling across the floor, he reached out till his fingers connected to the wall and he ran his palm across it. It was rough and dusty as well. Not smoothed out yet. Just recently finished.

He was in a construction zone.

Of course. What better way to hide in plain sight, than on a restricted and condemned building site? It was the perfect place to stow away a couple of obstacles shining a light on their plans. A death could easily be staged here. It might raise questions if Jameson was found dead in a place like this, but that was in the circumstances that they'd find him at all. They could always stick him in a concrete block and drown him in cement, and no one would be any wiser until it was too late.

And no one would find it _too_ weird if they found a bloodied, broken body at the base of the building, splattered into the pavement like a fallen egg. Spider-Man was known to show up in random places. Besides, one mishap with those webs of his, one web line on a crumbling building, and he could fall. Mistakes happened all the time, especially in construction zones.

Jameson looked back at the door anxiously, then back at the bloodied corner. A splotch of worry sloshed messily in his stomach and he slapped a hand over his chest, gasping reproachfully and gaping where his heartbeat in betrayal. Was he actually feeling _concerned _for that damn menace? NO! No way in _hell _was he going to allow that.

He slid down the wall, clutching his shirt and groaning as if he'd been poisoned. "Urgh - _dammit!" _

This couldn't be happening to him. That impudent little bug had been a thorn in his side ever since he first saw that stupid onesie outside his building. Prancing around through the streets as if he were a divinity among squabblers. Worrying for Spider-Man went against every principle Jameson's distilled into his workplace. In his very lifestyle. It was practically his own religion at this point, and this blasphemy to his customs was worse than any dumb-ass quip that _dumb-ass _could make up.

"Urgh," he groaned again. Is this what dying inside felt like? This feeling that he's officially been subjugated to the slime and grime of the city? No wonder kids nowadays made so many remarks about it. What was the point anymore?

Heaving a heavy-worn sigh, Jameson crawled back to his feet, still clutching his shirt. This is what happened when you had such a big damn heart like his. What a curse.

He'd have to get that fixed as soon as he made it out of there.

Wiping dust off on his pants, Jameson stood before the door in a new pensive way, holding his chin. He peered skeptically at it, roving over its surface, looking for any miniscule imperfections. It was still too dark to make out much, but of the light he _did _have made the door seem as unblemished and sturdy as the last time he looked at it.

Maybe there was something in the room that could help him. It was a construction site, there had to be some sort of tool he could jam through the door locks. Thrusting out his hands, he cautiously felt along the floor and boxes for anything remotely blunt or pointy. Aside from a few nails though, the room was baringly empty of anything useful.

He tried lifting the cement boxes, but that quickly became a bad idea. No sooner had he tried picking one up did his back give a sickening crack. Spitting profanities that could muck the very walls, he hobbled away from the blasted boxes, after giving them a good kick that jammed his toes, and slumped against the wall.

Okay, maybe he wasn't as spry as he once was.

He needed a chiropractor...and quite possibly a therapist.

Or a weapon because there were footsteps outside the door now and he was wholly unprepared to be killed. Scrambling across the floor, he grabbed the few small nails he managed to find, ignoring the ever-creaking pain in his back as he crouched behind the cement boxes, brandishing his make-shift weapons between his fingers like that one mutant with the spiky hair and knuckle-claw-knives.

Light flooded the room once more as three figures shuffled inside.

Jameson recognized the limp figure between them instantly, and lurched to his feet, forgoing his hiding spot. "What the _hell _did you bastards do to him?!"

Spider-Man was a _mess._ From the fleeting, jerky glimpses Jameson saw earlier, he knew he looked _bad_, yet it seemed conceivably impossible that they could make him look worse. And they'd gone and proven him wrong. The fleshy framework of the man that used to be a wise-cracking, super-colored dolt had been reduced to a lump of anatomy composed of blood, open wounds, and stained spandex.

The two carrying the man regarded Jameson as if he was a frivolous nuisance unworthy of an answer as they dumped the body back in the corner it'd been retrieved from. The sound that spilled from Spider-Man's mouth was loud, wet and gurgled, a clear testament to his pain. It was a sound Jameson would imagine a gushing wound would make.

As soon as the two figures stepped away, Jameson lurched forward on numb feet, coming to his knees next to the bloody mess, hovering his hands over Spider-Man's body, but unable to do anything with them. It was hard to tell what was a wound and what was just blood. The spandex was gnarled beyond comprehension and so badly stained it was a chore to piece together where it ended and where it began. All Jameson could see for a face was a frayed mask splattered from coughed up blood and a fracture of broken lenses. Watery brown eyes stared in blank pain past the mess, and if Jameson was seeing clearly, a lense shard was imbedded into the man's brow, He had but a few precious seconds to take in the injuries before the door closed once more, encasing them both in darkness.

"Hey," Jameson's hands hovered over Spider-Man's shoulders, just shy of shaking him. "_Hey_. Come on, say something." A wet trembling breath escaped the air between them. "Come on, you blasted Wall-Crawler. _The one time _I need you to actually talk to me and you can't even do _that_."

"J -...Jameson?" his voice was slippery and flimsy, and so unnaturally soft it left a portion of Jameson's mind reeling.

Almost against his will, Jameson heard his own voice soften, "Yeah, it's me. It's me."

Another shaky breath. "Wh - ...are – are you...okay?"

Jameson balked. "Of course I'm okay. Why in heaven's name wouldn't I be?"

"Goo - good," Spider-Man sank in on himself. "They didn't come get you then."

"Yeah, but by the looks of it, they sure _got you_. What _the hell _were they doing?"

Through the murky darkness, Jameson thought he saw Spider-Man's head bob weakly, "Yo - you know, the -" he hissed harshly through his teeth, "usu...usual. Stab me with this, hit me with that. Don't worry 'bout it. Didn't," he clenched in pain, making his words stretch thinly, "feel a thing."

"Like _hell,_" Jameson snapped. "Look at you, you're two seconds from splitting at the seams you damn idiot!"

"Well that's nice," Spider-Man mumbled, more to himself than Jameson.

"Pleasantries outta the way, Webhead, why are they even doing this to you? Cause you ran out on them? They double-crossing you, huh? _Huh_? Are they?" Even as he said it, Jameson had a sinking feeling that this time, he might just be wrong.

_This time. _

There were things that just didn't make sense. _He _knew Spider-Man was no good, but he wanted him thrown in jail, not beaten to near death. Besides, if the terrorists were double-crossing him, why were they taking the time to beat him like this? Why not just kill him? Were they _that _cruel?

No. Of _course _they were that cruel. These were terrorists. What else did he expect?

"Th - they want information," Spider-Man wheezed, "about h-how their people were intercepted. Where SHI - SHIELD will be. Things happening at the summit."

Jameson frowned, sitting back on his haunches. "Why do they think _you'd _know anything about that?"

"Cause I told them I did."

A silent beat passed between them.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?!"

Spider-Man hushed him quickly, which instantly turned sour as he seized up and led out a high sound of pain that had Jameson ushering him back down, muttering more profanities under his breath.

"Can't you stop moving for _one second_? You're gonna make yourself even worse at this rate, and I'm not sharing this room with a dead vigilante."

"Has anyone told you how much of a sweet-talker you are?"

"Shut up and _stop moving,_ for heaven's sake, you're going to kill yourself."

Through the darkness, Jameson could feel Spider-Man's suddenly piercing stare.

"Do you care?"

That drew him to a halt. "Do I care? We - well, I don - I mean...well, why wouldn't I? You're dying, aren't you? Not gonna have you dying on my watch like some useless chump. What kinda person would that make me?"

Spider-Man was unnervingly quiet again and Jameson found himself fidgeting. He straightened his coat huffily and slapped dust from his hands before scooting forward a centimeter. "Now lay back, and don't even think about getting blood on my shirt. Dry cleanings' expensive."

He helped Spider-Man sit back till his head was resting more comfortable against the wall, thought it over, before heaving a big sigh and shirking off his jacket. "Here," he grumbled, folding it under Spider-Man's head so he wasn't so slumped. "Try not to get it messy."

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness, but not enough to perform any medical treatment. Not that Jameson knew anything even remotely medical. He had a heart attack once - the fault of the very person slouching in front of him - but it wasn't like he'd been diagnosing himself.

"Now," he said, once they were both better situated. "Why on God's green earth would you tell these psycho's you know stuff about SHIELD?"

Spider-Man took several shallow breaths before he answered, "So they wouldn't kill me. I - I needed something they wanted or else they would've just o - offed me when they first nabbed me."

"And when might _that _have been?"

"Sometime after the airport fight. I – I don't know, how long have I been gone?"

Jameson gaped at him, wide-eyed, "_You've been down here for five days!" _

"Huh, is that h- how long it's been?"

"Why haven't you tried to escape?"

It's silent for a long second, but when Spider-Man spoke again, it was brittle and nasty, more like he was spitting than talking. "Yo - you don't think I've _tried_! I'm not an idiot, Jameson. I don't _want _to be down here. Why do you think they _broke _my _leg_?"

The breath punches out of Jameson's lungs and he clamped his mouth shut, a part of him wanting to snap back, but the other part, allegedly, knowing that he didn't really have the right. He pictured the grotesque image of the bone crudely probing under Spider-Man's skin. They hadn't even given him the decency of a clean break.

Yeah, sometimes he could get a little carried away, and he might've taken it a little far this time. Clenching his fists in his lap, Jameson rubbed his fingers lightly against his legs. "Alright, alright," he conceded. "That was a little...too much on my part."

It's not much of an apology, and he knew it. Pride is a roadblock in his throat, and as much as he knows that it's the right thing to do, saying it feels like prying out his own tongue. The air is thick between them, dangerous and tense, like an open flame to a stick of TNT. Spider-Man didn't say anything else, and for some reason, that unsettled Jameson more.

That type of silence from him was...abnormal. Spider-Man was annoying as hell, but when he was talking it took away from the obvious underlining factors that so few saw. When the menace made jokes and grated on his nerves, Jameson could almost forget that Spider-Man was sliced and diced and sporting a broken leg. When he quipped, it was simple to think of him as nothing but a lowly punk in over his head. When he punned, it was easy to forget that this man could easily crush a skull with his bare hands.

And he was quiet now, and it was like every second cut into Jameson's head, performing its own surgery as it picked through his brain for every feat he's seen the Web-slinger do. Like the time he stopped a car with nothing but his hands. Or when he held up the Bugle building when it almost collapsed. The way he moved faster than Jameson's fluctuating TV ratings.

How easy it would be for him to kill Jameson on the spot, maybe even right now, as injured as he was. Because people with that kind of power could do it. They could do it with ease. And people like Jameson could do nothing to stop it.

Then the moment broke as Spider-Man sighed, and through the darkness, Jameson saw his figure sag. It broke the stained glass painted over Jameson's eyes and the fragments of unchecked power and aggression fell from his lids. Instead, he saw a hurt man, barely hanging on to consciousness, struggling against someone more powerful than he.

Jameson sat back on his legs again and ran a coarse hand through his hair. Damn, he really was gonna need to talk to a head-shrink after this. This type of life analyzation couldn't be healthy, could it?

Falling back, Jameson flopped out from under his legs and leaned against the wall too, shoulders a bare inch from the vigilante he despised for so many years. "We need to get out of here," He decided, and through the corner of his eyes, the shadow tilted in an agreeable nod.

"Do you know what they plan on doing?"

Spider-Man coughed weakly, and his hands curled tighter around his stomach. "I do – don't know much, just snippets. Th - they're planning on ruining the summit. Something about Wakanda's disgrace and opening up to the world, and," he made a fleeting airy gesture with his fingers, "other stuff. It was getting hard to focus once they started hitting me.

"What else?"

"I don't know, man," Spider-Man huffed, sounding so depleted and tired it came out as an exasperated puff of air, "It's not like they're t - telling me their plans. These guys are too professional for that," he swallowed roughly, "All I know is they're pl - planning an attack soon. I don't know where, I don't know how, all I know is that they're pretty confident its gonna halt T'Challa's plans of singing kumbaya with America."

Damn. There wasn't much to go on, but it'd have to be enough. Something was about to go down, and as far as Jameson was concerned, only he and the menace knew anything about it. They needed to get this to the authorities _stat_.

"They're getting sick of me," Spider-Man mumbled, "Which is _crazy_, right? I mean, I'm so charming. But...they're - they're about to call it quits. I don't know how much longer th - they'll keep me alive."

That's right. He could only keep his cover for so long before they realized Spider-Man was nothing more than a vigilante off the street. Which meant Jameson needed to figure out a way to get himself and a half-dead, broken-legged super-human out of there.

"We're gonna get out of here, bug. Don't start getting all whiny with me. We'll...we'll figure something out."

Spider-Man inhaled, preparing to say something when he stilled again. A curse. "They're back."

That's when Jameson heard footsteps and a shadow appeared on the floor. The door cranked open and a single figure stepped in.

"You _bastards,_" Jameson yelled, jumping to his feet. "Haven't you already tortured him enough? You haven't even been gone for 10 minutes!" A fist curled into Jameson's shirt and his rage simpered. "What are you - gah!" He was pulled forward, toward the door.

"Hey, wh - what are you doing? Let me go!" Jameson tried to pull his arm free, but it didn't budge. "_Hey!" _

At his back, Spider-Man was trying to sit up. "Le - let him go. Let him - _ah_!" He doubled over, lost in a noise of pain.

Jameson wasn't let go. He was dragged out and into the light of the corridor outside; the door slammed behind him.

**Well, things aren't looking so peachy-keen for our characters. **

**Thanks for reading and thank you for the support last chapter! Let me know what you thought of this one! **

**See you next Friday! **


	3. White Wolf

**Hey guys! Sorry this is (several weeks) late. Things come up, as they always do, and I can't really apologize for that so I guess...I don't know, there's nothing much to do but read the chapter XD **

**Hope you guys enjoy! **

J. Jonah Jameson POV

Jameson prided himself as a man who wasn't easily intimidated. He'd been sent enough death-threats to give National Security a heart attack, because that was the thing about him. He wouldn't be bowed.

As a reporter, and dedicated supporter of the news, it was his responsibility to deliver the cold hard facts to the people of his country, something that no lily-livered, cowardice, sack-of-potatoes excuse of a person could do. He's had villains seek him out in his home, he's been attacked in his workplace and nabbed off the streets, all in pathetic attempts to intimidate him.

And they, most of the time, didn't work!

But he'd admit, as the strip of dignity inside him shriveled, he was somewhat, a little bit, very intimidated now.

The man escorting him was decked out in white armor. Or it could've been a woman. He honestly couldn't tell. All he could distinguish through his rapidly building fear was that they had an extremely tight grip and their armor looked strikingly similar to that of a panther - if the pointed ears and narrowed eyes were anything to go by. A long airy cape hung off their shoulders, falling short of their knees, and too, was as white as a sheet of freshly fallen snow.

Next to Jameson's loud, scuffling steps, his assailant walked soundlessly, as if the cement underfoot was too petrified to even echo their presence. Jameson wondered how Spider-Man had heard them at all. It was probably some weird, freakish thing that had to do with his abilities.

"Where are you taking me?" Jameson demanded, choosing to ignore the tremor rattling his vocal cords, and tugged fruitlessly on his arm. His escort didn't answer, nor did they spare him a glance, but heaved him forward with strength unbefitting against a man of Jameson's athletic stature. "Hey, I'm talking to you! What are you doing? Where are you taking me? I - I'll have you know that I am a _very _highly esteemed newscaster and that if anything were to happen to me, _gah! -_" he stumbled over his feet as they sharply turned a bend. "It'll be suspicious! Very suspicious! They'll know something's up, and then what would you do, eh? You'd be discovered!"

"Silence," the man-warrior-_thing_ grunted, gripping Jameson's arm until he winced.

"Whatever ya no-good pea-brain," Jameson muttered under his breath, but he conceded and obediently tightened his lips. He shivered as a cold breeze drifted throughout the unfinished skeleton of a building, and wrapped his jacket tighter around his torso one-handed. His theory was correct, they were in a construction site. Stacks of thin boards took up space, cement dust clung to the plastic tarps strewn across the floors and hanging off walls, crusty portable cement mixers hung back ominously in corners, and a variety of work tools lay about as if the workers using them had left in a hurry.

Then they passed a room, the doorway half-hidden by a low-hanging tarp, and the sharp tang of blood ravaged Jameson's nose. He bristled, jaw-dropping at the piled mound in the room that held a startling resemblance to human bodies. Through the yellow light provided by the portable lamp-towers, a yellow hard-hat gleamed through the doorway, speckled with dried red splotches. Jameson swallowed, feeling as though he was choking on dust again.

HIs earlier bravado slipped through the heels of his feet and he stumbled in his haste to move past the ghastly room. He glanced over his shoulder, waiting for a corpse to follow them out, and quickly looked back, swallowing hard. Any questions he had withered on his tongue and collapsed back down in his throat, and he resisted the urge to rub his neck to ease them back down to his esophagus.

The smell of blood followed them as they came up to a new door, recently installed by the looks of it, and the escort rapped on the hardwood twice. It opened immediately and Jameson barely had the chance to resettle himself before he was shoved inside and instantly hauled to the center of the room. The door closed at his back, casting the room in darkness, and he was shoved on a cheap, collapsible chair set up under a single light.

"Wha - what are you doing?" He wheezed, as his hands were bound to his bask by an unseen being. "_Hey, _what are- what are you doing? Le- let me out here you damn bastards! If- if you don't let me out _right now_..." but his threat fell feebly, landing in a gross, useless pile at his feet, as he whipped his head around desperately, squinting at the moving shadows in the room.

Do what? There was nothing he _could _do. He was completely at their mercy. They could beat him, break his ribs, snap his legs, - do _anything _and he was powerless to stop it. No one knew where he was, so there would be no last-minute saves. He was bound to their mercy as much as he was to that chair.

"Loo- look," he leaned forward as if to strike a deal, "I- I have money. Is that what you want? Just name your price, alright, and you got it. I- I have a wife, okay. I can't just _leave _her...unless you want her, I mean, as far as wives go-" his words drowned as a figure stepped into the radius of light.

They, too, were clad in the white panther garb, the only difference being the broader range of the cape - stopping just above the elbows - and the line of black that bordered the hem that connected it over his chest. This one's head hung higher, shoulders back straighter. Jameson's been in the presence of Captain America before, so he knew authority when he saw it. This must be their leader.

"What do you want from me? I can-" was all Jameson managed to get out before he was backhanded with enough force to whip his head to the side.

"Silence," the leader said past the vibrant array of curses that spilled from Jameson's swelling lips, "You will not speak unless spoken to. I ask the questions here, not you."

Jameson opened his mouth to concede when he was hit again. His already bleeding lips felt wetter and he could almost feel the swelling of his raw cheek. He nodded that time, several times to make sure the message was across, and slumped back in the chair, groaning. He recognized that accent. These people were from Wakanda. Which didn't make sense because they were _supposed _to be making peace with them? So what the hell was with this?

The leader paced in front of him, slow and carefree, as if he had nothing but time to spare. "You are the one responsible for the Bugle news, nod if I am correct."

Jameson nodded feebly.

"So it is you who have been prying into our affairs?"

He hesitated but nodded again. There was no use in lying about. Besides, he had a feeling it'd just be worse if he tried to fib his way out.

The man hummed as if satisfied with his honesty. He, too, moved soundlessly, as if the concrete soaked in his steps like a sponge. He stopped in front of Jameson, tall and looming, enough that Jameson had to tilt his head to meet his face, but the light was too bright and he only managed to hold it for a few seconds.

"Many have said that I am a cruel, brutal man," he said it casually, as if it were a common fact. Jameson kept his eyes fixated between his feet. "And are they correct?" he continued, rolling his shoulders. "Yes. They are. However," he crouched down, coming eye-level to Jameson, "I am not without mercy. So here is your savior, John Jonah Jameson. You will stop pestering in our business, no longer meddle in our affairs, and I will let you live. I will let you leave this building, alive and whole, and you will withhold your frivolous stories. You will not breathe a word of this to anybody. Am I understood?"

Jameson shuddered, feeling as though a slimy eel was sliding down his spine. The prospect of leaving this place, however long he'd been there, was a tempting one. He nodded several times, feeling as though his brain was rattling in his skull, "Ye- yes, I und-" but he paused, tilting his head as the rest of the message hit his reasoning. He looked up, perplexed, "You want me to stop doing my _job?" _he demanded. "Look here, sonny, you're not the first crook to threaten me, and you damn-well won't succeed. I am a man of news! A servant to the people! This blasted hell is _America _and I won't be suckered into becoming a sniveling coward! No sir, not J. Jonah Jameson as he lives and breathes!"

The man stared at him with narrowed glowing eyes and slowly stood up, "As he lives and breathes," he repeated, fingers closing around the hilt of a wicked-looking knife handed to him by one of his lackeys, "Interesting choice of words."

Jameson didn't need a spider-sense to know that he'd breached dangerous territory. "Wa- wait," he floundered, sitting up straight, "I- perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty. May- maybe we can work something out! I have influence, you know! Lots of contacts. I was the mayor once!"

Somewhere in Jameson's panic-induced brain, he heard the door swing open and a flurry of movements within the shadows. A figure stepped into the light, stopping in front of the leader, "_I-White Wolf, ingxelo yokuhlola. Sifake elinye i-arhente,_" they said, cooly, and the man stopped gripping the knife with bloodlust to look up in new interest.

_"Uqinisekile ukuba yi-arhente," _

The newcomer nodded, "_Ewe Mnumzana,"_

Jameson looked between them rapidly, eyebrows pinching when he wasn't immediately skewered. His confusion grew when the leader handed the knife back to his lackey in the shadows and strode out of sight. "_Ndiza kuzibona mna, ngoko. Thatha le ngqungquthela kwisisele sayo. Ndiza kumelana naye kamva_," Jameson heard him say, and instantly he was being unbound from the chair and lead out of the room.

"Whoa, wait- what's going on? What are you doing with me?"

A sharp hit knocked him in the back of the head and he stumbled, dazed, as he was pulled back out of the room. His head throbbed as they marched quickly back the way they came, past the ghastly room and half-finished walls, to the ever-familiar door he'd been trying to bust open for the past hour. A hazy part of him tugged half-heartedly against the grip on his arm, but it made his head throb more, and he wanted to throw up instead.

The door unlocked and he was shoved back inside, sprawling across old plastic tarps and skidding his knees against the concrete floor. The door shut with a boom too loud in his ears, and Jameson winced, rubbing the twinging pain in the back of his head timidly.

In the corner, plastic tarp moved and short, raspy breaths permeated the space between them. "Jameson?" a cough, followed by a rough groan, "JJ? Is that you?"

"Yeah," Jameson muttered, rubbing his head more fervently as he stood. "Yeah, it's me, Wallcrawler."

Spider-Man sighed a deep, relieved sound that made Jameson's heart cringe. "Good. Good. They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Jameson stopped rubbing his head, eyes straying from Spider-Man's direction even though they couldn't really see each other. "Yeah, of course, I'm fine. Didn't lay a finger on me. What's it to you, dumbass?"

Another sound of relief. "That's good. I...I thought for sure they were gonna hurt you."

Jameson's stomach squirmed uncomfortably, and he adjusted his shirt to accommodate. Why the hell was the wallcrawler asking if he was okay? There was nothing he could do about it, whether they hurt him or not. Besides, it's not like Jameson has ever given a damn when the menace took a hit. Hell, Spider-Man's never given a damn before.

Then again, he's always been there to stop villains from harming Jameson and his employees.

_An act, _he insisted, _he_ _just wanted to play hero in front of an audience, especially a news crew! What better way to get media coverage than save the news themselves. _But his argument sounded feeble, even to himself.

Unable to bear the thought of re-evaluating his morals again, too tired to even attempt it, Jameson trudged loudly across the room and sat adjacent to Spider-Man, leaning his head back lightly against the wall. Swallowing the dust from his throat, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He's just gotta stay calm. This wasn't the first time he was kidnapped by a wack-a-doo. So long as he kept his cool, help would come.

It always did.

But...that help usually came in the form of Spider-Man.

His eyes opened to the ceaseless dark and he grimaced, fingers digging into the material of his pants. Spider-Man wasn't going to be the one to bust through his wall, cost him thousands of dollars in repairs, and take down the villain. Spider-Man wasn't going to show up with his hell-forsaken quips and web them to safety. How was he supposed to do that when he was beaten half to death, near comatose, and sitting 5 feet from Jameson in the same darkroom?

His fingers dug farther into his pants and he sat up, heart picking up as the nerves in his stomach writhed. He rubbed his thighs, sparking friction between his fingers, before clapping them together and wringing his hands. They were alone in this, weren't they? The police didn't know where they were. No one saw Jameson leave. No one knows he's gone. Spider-Man was a damn vigilante who came and went as he pleased, so no one will bat an eye for a little while longer. Robbie couldn't contact the authorities, because he thought he was safe and at home.

This was...Jameson blew out a hard breath. This was _bad_.

"I can hear your heart attack from here," Spider-Man croaked, and Jameson jumped, turning slightly in his direction. "Calm down, JJ. Just gotta stay calm. We're gonna be..." but he trailed off because they _weren't _going to be fine. This was a terrible situation to be in.

"Who are you trying to fool?" Jameson snapped, rubbing his thighs again. "This is- we're in deep shit. No one knows I'm here, Web-head. No one knows where I am. They're not going to know till, hell, until tomorrow at least. I- I'm stuck here! No one's coming to save us! We're stuck- we're-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Spider-Man shifted in the dark as if edging closer. "Calm down, JJ. Seriously, let's not give you another heart-attack. Ever hear that three's the charm? Don't get my hopes up. Just breathe, okay?"

Jameson didn't want to do a damn thing he said. But his chest was getting tight, and his heartfelt as if it was two beats away from giving out. Was his left arm starting to hurt? Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

"Okay," he wheezed, "Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay." He took a deep breath, let it out, and took another, repeating the cycle until his heart rate slowed considerably and his hands weren't feeling so clammy.

He sagged back against the wall, wincing when his head hit it a tad too hard. "We need to get out of here," he told the darkness.

"Yeah...we do." But Spider-Man didn't offer any more suggestions. Jameson could hear his breathing, ragged and wet, and he winced. The bug is probably in a lot of pain. Jameson's seen him take a fair share of hits, but this time they might've gone overboard. He could practically feel the pain oozing from Spider-Man, soaking into his own skin, and it definitely wasn't helping his nerves.

They could've done the same thing to him. Probably _would've _done the same thing to him if they hadn't been interrupted. Jameson shuddered, feeling it rattle deep in his bones. He was lucky, that time. If they waited just 5 minutes...

Huh...why did they stop in the first place?

"They, uh, were gonna start 'interrogating' me," Jameson said, face flushing. He didn't even know _why _he was telling the menace, it's not like it mattered to him. But the breathing quieted a tad, turned to his direction, and Jameson knew he was listening. "But, they stopped. One of them came in just as their leader was about to dice me up. Said something in a different language, I don't know, but it must've been something good. The guy left and they sent me back here."

Spider-Man was quiet for a good, solid minute. "They probably found a new lead," he whispered, so quiet and wrecked, Jameson almost couldn't pick it out.

"A new lead?"

"Someone who can tell them what they want to know. I'm not doing a good enough job, I guess. Or they found something that will help their plans."

Jameson rubbed his neck, spreading grime over his skin, as he grimaced. "And what are their plans?"

"Of what I can tell, it has something to do with the Wakandian summit. Disrupting it, or something. I don't know what they're planning yet, though."

This was getting very suspicious. Not that terrorists were normally sun-shine and rainbows. They obviously had something against Wakanda, yet they adorned the same panther design as King T'Challa. Wakanda seemed like their intentions were peaceful, and the Avengers trusted them, so there was that. So what was up with these ones?

And so close to the official Wakandin summit, officiating their treaty as allies with America. Attacking a New York airport. But why? If they wanted to stop their King, they should've attacked Avengers Tower, where he was staying.

But, then again, it was suicide to lay siege to the home of the World's Mightiest Heroes.

So many questions, so little answers. Jameson's fingers tingled just thinking about it. This was just like his old journalism days - minus panther-based terrorists and peace summits. Sniffing out a story, connecting the dots, figuring out the truth, it was a match lighting the gasoline in his veins. Erupting into a fire he could feel under his skin. A feeling he used to chase when you had to roll up your sleeves and get dirty to get the story.

"We need to get out of here," Jameson repeated.

"Uh, yeah. No shit, sherlock. Thought we established that already."

"No, Web-ass, we need to get out of here so we can tell someone. Contact the authorities, warn King T'Challa! You're buddy-buddy with the Avengers arent'cha? Call them up."

Spider-Man snorted. "You say that as if I have their number."

"Well don't you?"

"No. I'm just a street vigilante, remember? Yeah, we've teamed up, but that doesn't mean we're swapping numbers or anything. 'Sides, with all that's going with the summit, it's unlikely I'll get to any of them."

"But that's just it!" Jameson stressed, leaning forward up on his knees, "Don't you see you blind dolt? These terrorists are planning something against the summit! They're Wakandian, so how do you think our skeptical American government will react to an attack like that? There won't be a damn peace treaty when we're gunning for Wakandian terrorists."

Spider-Man hesitated, before his voice crept back, dawning with realization, "You're right, Jonah. These- these people aren't just looking to sabotage the summit, they're planning something bigger. They wanted me because they thought I was a part of SHIELD."

"Why SHIELD, though?" Jameson mused, scrubbing his chin roughly. "What do they got that the terrorist wants?"

A sharp inhale across from him. "Because SHIELD confiscated their weapons! The airport attack...I don't think that was an attack, J.J. They looked just as surprised as I did when we showed up. They were caught off guard."

"But they had a _bomb _with them," Jameson said. "Important government officials were coming in through that airport. It would be the perfect place to stage an attack against us."

"No..." Spider-Man whispered. "No, I don't think they were planning on attacking the senators." his voice rose, talking excitedly. "They weren't planting a bomb, they were _transporting _it. They weren't gonna use it at the airport, they were gonna use it at the _summit_."

Jameson inhaled sharply, "Those _bastards_,"

"Something must've gone wrong though," Spider-Man continued fervently. "They were caught. SHIELD confiscated their bomb and they needed it back. That's why they're pestering me for information. They need an in to SHIELD."

"Shame you're not a SHIELD agent."

"Hey, I would make a fantastic spy, thank you very much. Besides, given the circumstances, that's probably for the best. At least if I crack, they won't get anything out of it."

That stumped anything else Jameson had to say, and he settled back against the wall. Oh yeah, he forgot that they've been torturing him. Damn, it was a good thing he _wasn't_ a SHIELD agent then.

But how much longer could he go on like that?

"We need to get out of here," Spider-Man said, and Jameson was almost certain he was reading his mind.

"Yeah," he took a shaky breath, arms trembling from the information they've uncovered. "We need to get this to someone." He gripped his pants, steadying himself, and took another deep breath. He couldn't believe he was about to do this. It went against everything he's ever believed, every way he acted. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

He turned to Spider-Man muddled figure and stuck out his hand, "Alright, you numb-brained menace, I'm calling a truce. We're partners now, so don't do anything stupid that'll get me killed."

"D'awww, JJ, you say the nicest things." But his fingers grazed Jameson's, just shy of a handshake before he seized up with a painstaking hiss. "OW! _Ow! _Bruised everything. Broken everything." He pulled away, shriveling in on himself, and Jameson refit his arm by his side.

"Well dammit, Webhead! I wouldn't have offered to shake if you'd reminded me!"

"Stop victim-blaming me, asshole!"

"Victim-blaming? It's your fault for dressing up like a wackadoo and prancing in the streets!"

"I will throw you through that wall."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Then go ahead!"

"..."

"That's what I thought."

"You know, sometimes I really hate you."

"At least we can agree on that."

"What? That we both hate you?"

"Wha- no! That I hate you, you idiot!"

"Well I-" Spider-Man paused, going still. "Dammit," he groaned, his head falling back against the wall, "They're back."

This time Jameson knew what he was talking about, and was on his feet by the time the door opened. He scrambled for a weapon, settling on a little nail, and squared himself. "Stay back!" he demanded, swiping the air. One of the terrorists grabbed him easily and tossed him out of the way as if he was nothing but a piece of paper.

Jameson bungled back to his feet as the two terrorists lifted Spider-Man and marched out of the room. "Hey, put him back!" Jameson shouted, storming after them. "He can't even walk, you bastards! What more can you do to him?"

He grabbed the closest one and was instantly kicked away. He landed in the concrete boxes this time and grabbed his shoulder where a corner jabbed his flesh. "Wa- wait!" but the door closed, and he was alone again.

Jameson stared at the door for a long moment, but was unable to sit, and paced a blind path through the room. This was bad. This was very, VERY bad. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged roughly on his shirt. He found his jacket back in the corner, crumbled and dirty, but he pulled it back on, if just to give himself something to do. Oh, this was a very, _extremely_, terrible situation.

"Calm down," he muttered, "Calm down, just calm down. Come on, keep it together. Calm down. Breathe." He was terrible at listening to himself. All he could hear was Spider-Man annoying, pain-consumed voice.

_"They're getting sick of me...they're - they're about to call it quits. I don't know how much longer they'll keep me alive." _

And for some reason, that worried him a whole lot more.

* * *

Jameson counted to 1246 when noise came from outside. He hadn't been able to sit ever since his cellmate was taken, and was at the door, eager and waiting, as soon as the first noise reached his ears.

A long minute passed, and he jumped back when a loud thump hit the door and the metal dented. He stumbled back when another hit followed, and another, and another, till the door ripped off its hinges and teetered on its frame.

Someone hobbled in.

"JJ," the voice was thick with pain, strained, and on the brink of cracking, but it was one Jameson recognized instantly. Spider-Man was splotchy with blood stains and tears. His mutilated leg was bandage hastily with a combination of concrete paper, plastic tarp, and webbing, and one had lay curled raptly around his torso. He was bent nearly in half and limping so bad it was a damn wonder how he'd managed to walk at all.

"Spider-Man, holy shit, wha-"

"JJ," he interrupted, hysterical and shrill. Outside, footsteps approached. "We need to go, _now!"_

**Translations:**

**_~ "White Wolf, we have managed to detain another agent."_**

**_"You are sure it is an agent?"_**

**_"Yes, sir."_**

**_"I will see to it myself, then. Take this imbecile back to his cell. I will deal with him later." ~_**

**And that wraps up this chapter! **

**A little hiccup though, my draft for chapter 4 was lost in my flashdrive purge (RIP) so it might take me longer to get that chapter out. Chapter 5 and 6 are A-okay, I just need to rewrite chapter 4 and connect it with what happens later, which means I've got to remember how it was originally written and blah blah blah, it'll just take me some extra time (especially because I'm participating in the Spideypool Big Bang, and I'm going crazy finishing up my entry.) **

**Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter! :D **


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